


Endings

by TrulyCertain



Series: Armour 'verse [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7269661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What could have been, and what could be. Morgana, Alistair and nine endings for their story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endings

##  i.

He’s grown to accept some of it: the monotony of routine when he’s in the Circle, the extended unpleasantness of tramping through bogs after apostates when he’s not, the having to wear a _skirt._ But there are other things that he’ll never get used to: the lyrium-breath, the frightened look in their eyes when they’re found.

Maker, he hates this. Every moment of it gnaws at him.

He finally picks up the apostate’s trail somewhere in the Wilds - it’s a combinations of quickly stashed away lyrium kits and Veil tears. It doesn’t take him long to find her.

She raises her head. Her hair is matted and greasy. Her eyes were probably blue before, but they certainly are now, unnaturally bright with lyrium-shine. (He hates that most of all: the lyrium, the thing that connects them, binds them, makes them _this_.)

Her mouth curls in a sneer, her fists curling. There’s a dagger at her hip, but he sees no scars on her wrists, her arms. Even so, the sight of it, and of her coiled and seemingly ready, makes him draw his sword. 

Most would start running about now, but instead she just looks at him levelly, her eyes resigned and the hint of a smile on her lips. “Templar.”

##    
ii.

There are stories and myths. Maker, there are even tavern songs. She’s known as the Hero of Ferelden - a beacon in the dark, a tale told to inspire future soldiers and Wardens.

They’re all wrong. The stories don’t talk about the exact shade of her eyes, the kindness of her hands. He knows who she was. She was simply Morgana, and he’s hers, even now.

##    
iii.

She remembers his worry, his fear for them both. _We - we could die tomorrow. I’d like to say I threw caution to the wind at least once._

She took his hand, watched his face soften, and told him they had all the time in the world.

She lied.

Leliana places a hand on her shoulder. The touch barely registers; every part of her is numb. She still stands there, unable to move, listening to the quiet words close by.

“Thirty years, give or take. Wasn’t that what you said? I thought… a couple of months to sort out the politics. Three to make the journey to Rainesfere. Buy a farm?”

Something hot drips onto her neck. She ignores it, still focused on the voice close to her ear.

“No. Maybe not. Maybe we could just ignore the rest of it. Keep on the road, keep walking. Until our feet bled, or we found somewhere nice, or…” A pause, an inhalation. “You’re right. What you said - the threats of death, the tent, the bloody _stew._ I’ll do it all again, if it’s with you.”

She notices somewhere at the back of her mind that her sword has fallen to the ground, her hands shaking too much to hold it.

“I’ll go anywhere. If it’s with you.”

It’s only when her knees start to buckle and Leliana has to steady her that she realises the words are hers, and that the liquid running down her face isn’t blood.

“We still - we still had twenty-nine years.”

##    
iv.

It was a nice thought. He knows it for what it is now: a dream, a pretty little lie to keep him going. The idea that maybe, just for once, he could be himself and it would be enough.

She looked at him, told him time and time again that his blood didn’t matter. That it was him she cared for.

He begged her until he was hoarse not to do this. Did their time together mean nothing? Did she _ever_ listen to him?

She looks into his eyes, raises her chin, and slips on the mask of the Grey Warden. “I understand. An heir is needed, and a mage…” She looks away briefly, and the front slips. “Never a mage.”

He swallows and has to suppress the urge to reach out to her. Not now. Not after everything, after this.

She’s trying to mask the hurt in her eyes. It isn’t working. “You are my king. You are my friend. That will be enough.”

A few muttered words between them about how Ferelden will be better this way, and he walks towards the door. He stops at the gentle words from behind him. “I’m sorry, Alistair. I… I think I always will be.”

He nods once, then closes the door behind him, not looking back.

It’s only later, in his room, that he sits in the darkness, head in his hands, struggling to breathe. He looks up at a soft noise that sounds like something being knocked over in the corridor, footsteps pausing outside his door.

When he looks, there’s no-one there, but there’s warm magic in the air, and it smells like grass after rain.

 

## v.

The Warden-Commander visits Denerim a few times every year. She’s good friends with the King, apparently, though there have been some… unsavoury rumours suggesting there’s more to it. (There are other rumours, too; ones that say that he suggested it, that he begged her, but she left him all the same.)

This time, once again, she strides into the palace, in Warden armour and with magical wards shimmering faintly around her.

The King has an arm around his queen, whispering something in her ear that has her blushing, but stops abruptly when his former comrade arrives before the throne. She smiles broadly, embracing him and his wife, and the three of them depart to catch up in private, as usual.

The Queen is pregnant, apparently, and both of the royal couple are pleased by the news.

When she is told, some say that the Commander’s smile wavers for a moment, though that would only be rumour.

The announcement is greeted with much celebration, and the mage stands in the corner with a small glass of wine - apparently, she is polite and interested to all around her, but quiet.

This time, once again, the Commander leaves. This time, once again, she looks back at the palace, and her smile fades. In the following months, those in the palace are disappointed when invitations are met with polite but firm messages of important business at Vigil’s Keep that needs tending to.

 

## vi.

She knows that voice, will do until the end of her days. This time, however, the sarcasm is inlaid with a slur, the words blind and bitter rather than wry and teasing. She has to close her eyes for a moment at the force of it.

Nathaniel looks at her in concern as he hears the words: cries of “betrayal” and “thoughtless” and… much worse besides. 

He opens his mouth, but she shakes her head. “I have to do this. All I can hope to do is tell him the truth.”

“And if he won’t listen? If he hurts you?”

She swallows, praying her words are true as she says them. “The man in there is still Alistair. He’ll listen.”

 

## vii.

It’s only after the celebrations for the Wardens that ended the Blight, the endless avoiding of nobles and the endless embarrassing ballads, that the two Wardens actually manage to find each other in the quiet. They each hold a glass of some sort of Orlesian wine neither of them intend to drink. They stare into the claret liquid instead of at each other, each trying to find a way to break the silence.

She finally looks up. “Alistair…” She looks away, swallows. “They’re transferring me to Amaranthine, they’re saying. Anora wants me to be…” She suddenly takes a gulp of the wine, her nerves failing her and her hands shaking. “…To be Warden-Commander.”

Something crosses his face, something else besides shock, and then it’s gone as quickly as it came, and he’s looking down into his own glass. He smiles, but it’s unsteady. “Wow. That’s… that’s great. They’re saying something about Weisshaupt, though, for me…” He runs a hand through his hair, unable to look at her. His throat’s clogging up at the prospect of never seeing her again - after all they’ve been through, after all he’s felt… He knows it’s a lie, a story to make things easier, but he still tries, "Maybe they’ll transfer us both. After all, we did stop the Blight together.“

She smiles, looks at him properly. "Yes. We did.” A pause. “Thank you. For everything, all that you’ve done… I probably wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for…” She trails off, looks back at the wine. “I’m sorry. It’s just all been so… strange.”

He nods. “Yes, I suppose it has." 

The words ring in his head; they’re on the tip of his tongue, but he clamps his mouth shut, refusing to release them. _Please don’t leave. You said we’d do this together. I don’t know what I’ll be without you._ And the truest, the worst of all - the ones he can’t even say to himself, let alone to her. Three words, so small but so heavy.

She clears her throat in the sudden silence. "I should be going.” She places her wine glass aside, offers her hand.

He does the same and shakes it, then, unable to believe he’s doing it, pulls her into a hug. A year ago she would probably have decked him, but that was before she became his best friend, when they were different people. Her arms tighten around him, and she buries her face in his neck. He finds himself closing his eyes. He’s wanted her in his arms for so long, but not like this. The first time was never meant to be the last. There’s a brief flicker of something warm from her hands, some kind of magic, and he hears her exhale sharply, shakily. It’s too much and not enough, all at once.

Then it’s over.

She steps away, looking at the floor, and it takes her a moment before she finally meets his eye again. “See you, Alistair. Farewell.” She begins to walk away from him, and there’s a pause, her steps halting. She turns, looks back at him. “I need to say… Look, I think I might…” She swallows, waves a hand. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. It’s… too late now, anyway.”

He watches the first and only woman he’s ever loved walk out of the room, wonders what she wanted to tell him, and thinks of the rose, still lying untouched in his pack.

Maybe it’s better this way.

 

## viii.

The new Grey Wardens aren’t sure what to think about their commander.

She seems quiet and polite enough (unless you steal her books), but Ayersley swears that he saw her run out into a thunderstorm and laugh, dragging her second-in-command with her. Oh, you know, the one from the Blight. And Ged is sure he saw them kissing.

The senior Wardens keep smirking knowingly, asking why they’d imagine such strange things of the leader of the Fereldan order. Wardens have to be dignified, after all.

 

## ix.

He finds her on a quiet road halfway to Weisshaupt. The bleak remnants of the Orlesian order have already marched to the fortress, but he had business to attend to.

Well, he told them he did. That one’s complicated. It also involved telling them where Morgana was, which is… not happening.

He’s spent far too long tramping through desert, and small, annoying clouds of dust rise with every step he takes. One or two of them have even made him cough. But he got her letter, and half of him thinks that even Corypheus couldn’t stop him doing this. He keeps walking, because every step will take him closer to her. He hopes. Maybe he’s wrong, and she sent the letter before an attack, or…

He sees the small tent, a glimmer of white in golden-yellow. A hooded figure sitting on a couple of blankets, a mabari curled next to her.

He knows, just like that. And damn dignity, he _runs_ , clanking and awkward and boiling in armour.

She looks up when he arrives, standing and pulling the hood from her face. And she’s a little more gaunt, and there are a few more scars, and her hair is maybe slightly longer, but he honestly doesn’t notice much else, because he moves, or maybe she does, and he’s kissing her. He reaches down to the small of her back to pull her closer, but she’s already stepping into his space, pressing herself against him, gasping against his mouth, the only thing so desperately alive in miles of desert . She touches his arms, his back, his shoulders, like none of it will never be enough. Like she’s making sure he’s real. He knows the feeling.

They part, slowly and reluctantly. He keeps his hands around her waist, because honestly, he’s not sure whether he’ll ever be able to let her go again.

She’s smiling, truly smiling, wide and bright. It means he’s made her happy, without reservation. He hasn’t seen it for far too long, and he’s so glad he can now. It fades as she assumes her Warden-Commander face.

“Alistair,” she says solemnly.

“Morgana,” he responds, with a nod.

She cracks first, her lips twitching.

The sight of it is enough to make him cross the space between them again, wrapping her tightly in his arms. He enjoys the solidity of her, and she runs a hand through his hair. He feels a gentle rejuvenation spell seep into his bones, and he mutters, “Really?”

He can feel her smile. “You seemed tired. And thinner. What are the Orlesians feeding you?”

“I’ve been on trail rations for a while now. _Someone_ made me trek out to meet her. But before that, it was very… _Orlesian.”_ He makes sure to invest the appropriate distaste in the word.

He feels her shoulders shake, and he’s uncertain whether she’s laughing or crying. “Oh, love. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” he replies, and he can’t put into words how true it is, the depth of it. “But I told you I’d come back to you.”

“I know. I believed you.”

He holds her as the sun sets, and it’s enough.


End file.
